


The Five Stages of Grief

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Five Stages of Grief, M/M, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Frank, Recovery, slash if you want, until its not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: The Five Stages of Grief, as experienced by a hundred year old brainwashed assassin and seen through the eyes of a former marine turned vigilante.





	1. Anger

 

_"I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me her real name was grief."_

 

Frank sat in the corner of the smokey bar, hunched in on himself with a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. His bourbon sat on the table in front of him, the summer heat dripping condensation down the side. It felt strange to be clean shaven in public again. Madani had been true to her word. He was a free man.

Yet old habits died hard.

The paranoia was still there, like a nagging voice in the back of his mind that refused to go away. It was that nagging that had him sitting at the table with clear sight lines to both exits while putting his back to the corner. It was what had his eyes flicking up every time someone new came in. It was that voice which had his fingers itching for a piece strapped tight against his ribs. Unfortunately that was part of the deal Madani had made on his behalf. That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a firearm if he needed to; there were many less that official channels he could use, but Frank was trying to change. His revenge was over.

He didn’t have to fight anymore.

While he should feel relieved, instead all he felt these days was restless. He was working construction again which filled his days but not his evenings or his weekends. That was why he was once again sitting at the back of Dave’s Bar, the late summer sun casting long shadows across the walls. Frank wasn’t the only regular face at the bar. There was Tom, Mike, and Richard, three Vietnam veterans who always sat at the same booth every Saturday. Dave was behind the bar like always. Magda was the funny little Russian lady who lived above the flower shop next door and only drank Vodka straight.

Then there was the mystery man.

The mystery man had started coming in a couple weeks back. He’d sit at the far corner of the bar and order whiskey neat. He looked scruffy, with a permanent five ‘o clock shadow and long shaggy hair that brushed his shoulders. He would have looked like any other fucking hipster that populated the more trendy areas of the city if it hadn’t been for the wardrobe. He always wore the same worn grey hoody, just a little too tight across the shoulders. A navy cap and black gloves completed the look.

It was the glove that had made Frank first do a double take; black leather gloves even as the city suffered from a heat wave. Frank guessed a prosthetic. It was the way the man held his left arm, like he was uncomfortable with it. It always sat stiffly in his lap. The gloves weren't the only thing that tipped Frank off that the mystery man had most likely been a vet. It was the way he held himself; his muscles never fully relaxed, unable to turn off that hyper-awareness that came from surviving a war zone.

Frank was halfway through his drink when the bell above the door chimed and trouble walked in. Ken and his boys worked on the oil rigs and every three weeks descended on the bar to drink till blackout status and then find someone to beat the shit out of. Frank had never had any issue with them but that was only because one of the goons had recognized him the first time Ken had tried to start something. In this instance, his reputation was a help instead of a hindrance. Frank watched as they scanned the bar, taking stalk of who was here, eyes glazed and sloppy. They were already drunk and clearly spoiling for a fight. Ken’s eyes alighted on him briefly before quickly looking away. His eyes slide over the vets and Magda, finally landing on the mystery man. Frank tensed as Ken’s eyes lit up with a dark glee.

He watched as the beefy man leaned against the bar, leering into the other man’s face. “You’re in my seat,” Frank heard him sneer. The dark haired man didn’t even twitch, didn’t even turn to look at him. “Now, boys, I don’t want any trouble,” Dave cautioned.

“Hey, you deaf or something?” Ken snapped, getting up in the guy’s face. The mystery man said nothing which only seemed to infuriate Ken more. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” he snarled, grabbing a handful of the man’s hoody and yanking him sideways. Frank was barely halfway out of his seat before there was a pained howl and Ken was on the ground, clutching his hand to his chest. Frank hadn’t even seen the mystery man move. Everyone stood frozen as the dark haired stranger pulled a few bills from his pocket.

“Sorry for the trouble,” he murmured, the first words Frank had ever heard him say, as he tossed the money on the bar. He met Frank’s gaze briefly as he slipped out the back; bright blue eyes reflected the same battle-weary look that Frank saw every morning in the mirror as well as the same barely controlled rage that Frank understood all too well.

 

 

The city was still under a heavy blanket of heat as Frank stepped out from the bar and made his way to the little grocery store on the corner. Even now with the sun dipped down past the buildings the heat was stifling. Frank could feel the sweat beading under the brim of his hat, dripping down the back of his neck. The street lamps turned on in a sudden bloom, throwing faint pools of light along the sidewalk.

Frank rounded the corner and shoulder checked straight into a guy coming the opposite direction. It felt like bouncing off a brick wall. “Sorry man, didn’t see you there,” Frank apologized, subtly flexing feeling back into his arm. “Sorry,” the man muttered, throwing his face into profile as he slipped around the corner. Frank blinked at the empty space the guy had occupied a breath before. That had been none other than the mystery man, still rocking the cap and worn grey hoody.

A quick stop at the grocery and Frank was retracing his steps to his apartment. Very few people were out and about, sticking to the air conditioned safety of the indoors. He was two blocks from his apartment when scuffling noises and muffled shouts from down a nearby alley caught his attention. Frank hesitated. He really shouldn’t get involved. A familiar chorus of nasty raucous laughter made up his mind.

Frank huffed a sigh and changed his trajectory. He walked quietly down to the end of the alley and peaked around the corner. He stifled a groan. Ken and a dozen of his bully boys stood in a semi circle against the back alley wall. Standing in the centre of it was the mystery man. The knees of his jeans were scuffed and torn, the arm of his hoody dirty like he’d been shoved to the ground. His hat was gone and for the first time Frank got a clear look at his face.

Fuck, he was just a kid.

The man muttered something too quiet for Frank to hear but whatever it was sent Ken into peels of laughter. “You hear that, boys?” the man crowed, gesturing grandly to the others. Frank didn’t miss the crowbar he was swinging in lazy circles. “He doesn’t wanna hurt us!” That prompted a good laugh. “That’s a good one. Got any others?” The man said something else Frank couldn’t hear but whatever it was got Ken spitting mad. “Fucking faggot,” he snarled, swinging the crowbar at the kid’s head. Frank didn’t even see the man move. One breath the crowbar was slicing through the air with Frank too far away to stop it and the next, it was caught in the kid’s left hand. A loud metallic clank reverberated through the alley.

Everyone froze.

The man ripped the crowbar from Ken’s hand before backhanding him with enough force that the man’s feet lifted clear off the ground. This seemed to be a signal and the others who had up until then been frozen leapt into action. The kid batted a metal pipe aside like it was made of bamboo, striking the man’s throat with his ungloved hand. His attacker dropped with an awful choked sound and the man whipped out a harsh kick to another man’s chest which him flying ten feet back into the nearby wall.

Frank watched in awe as he mowed his way through the attackers as easily as taking a stroll through a park. The man moved like water, strikes and blows designed to cause the maximum amount of damage while using the minimum amount of effort. It was a deadly dance that Frank couldn't look away from. The few glimpses he got of the man's face showed a dark, bitter satisfaction glimmering on top of a seething rage. The kid was preoccupied with disarming the last man of his baseball bat so he didn’t see Ken pick himself up from the ground, palming the crowbar again.

“Kid, behind you!” Frank roared. The man turned sharply but not fast enough and Ken cracked the crowbar across his face. The man’s head whipped to the side sharply as blood arched through the air and he dropped. Frank was moving before he realized it. He kicked Ken’s knee out from under him, smashing his fist across the man’s face once, twice, three times. Ken lolled against the grip Frank hand on his collar and Frank finished him by slamming the man’s head back into the nearby dumpster. Ken slumped to the side, out cold. Frank took a breath as he turned back to the mystery man, steeling himself for blood and brains.

He really hoped the kid wasn’t dead.

The kid wasn’t dead. He was in fact struggling to his feet. “Whoah, no, no, don’t move,” Frank cautioned, moving to help. His hand barely brushed the man’s shoulder before his wrist was grabbed in a vice-like grip. He felt his shoulder rotate painfully in the joint and he fell to his knee with a grunt. The man looked terrifying, eyes wide and rolling with half his face sheathed in blood, more of it caked into his hair. “Easy kid,” Frank grimaced. The man had excellent control; he’d pushed Frank’s shoulder to the limit without actually dislocating it. Frank wanted it to stay that way.

“I’ve seen you at the bar,” the man said, discomfort flickering across his eyes as he moved his jaw. “You following me?”

“Was just headed home, wasn’t looking for any trouble.” A bitter humour flickered across the man’s face. “Neither was I,” he said softly, releasing Frank. “It always seems to find me though.”

Frank huffed a soft chuckle as he massaged his arm. “You and me both, kid. Whoah!” he exclaimed as the other man swayed alarmingly, eyes rolling back in his head. He reached out a hand but the man flinched away again. “Easy, just tryin’ to help,” he murmured. “Don’t need your help,” the man snapped but then his knees buckled and only Frank’s quick reflexes kept him from falling. “Sure kid,” he chuckled. “Let’s get yah to a hospital, okay?”

“No hospitals,” the mystery man snarled, unfiltered panic in his eyes.

Frank knew the feeling. He wasn’t sure what the kid was mixed up in but that wasn’t any of his business. He just wanted to make sure he wouldn't pass out and die in some grungy back alley. The man wrenched himself free from his grip again and this time Frank couldn’t stop him from sprawling out across the pavement when his knees buckled. Frank sighed, carefully slinging the man’s arm over his shoulders and pulling him back to his feet.

“Where’d yah live?” he asked. He couldn’t help notice the way the man’s arm didn’t give like flesh and bone under his hand. It was unyielding and cold, even through the hoody. His fingers could feel strange ridges along his forearm. “Brooklyn,” the man muttered. Frank snorted. “Brooklyn, huh. Then what’re yah doing in Queens, kid?” He chuckled when all the other man did was mumble something unintelligible. “Come on, my place ain’t far.”

The man didn’t openly reject the idea so Frank took that for as much confirmation as he was gonna get. He paused long enough to pull the mystery man’s hoody up over his head to try and hide the blood. He snagged his abandoned grocery bag, feeling the bone-deep ache that was beginning to set into his knuckles. He half carried the kid up the fire escape, praying to whoever was listening that they wouldn't run into any nosy neighbours. Frank hustled the man into the bathroom, depositing him on the toilet before pulling out the first aid kit out from under the sink.

“You’re a mess, kid,” he said, wetting a wad of gauze in the sink and reaching for the man’s face. A hand caught his wrist and the bluest eyes Frank had ever seen stared cold and suspiciously up at him. “Look, I’m just trying to help,” he said again, beginning to get impatient. “I didn’t need your help,” the man said stiffly. “I had it handled.” “And then yah took a crowbar to the face,” Frank said wryly. “And now yer gettin’ blood all over my floor.”

“Didn’t ask—,”

“Fer my help, yeah I heard yah the first time,” he interrupted with a sigh. “What’s yer name, kid?” he added gruffly. Patience wasn’t his strong point but he did try as the other man watched him calculatingly. “I’m Frank,” he coaxed. “James,” the man said finally, releasing his wrist. “Nice to meet yah, kid,” he said, unable to shake the feeling he’d just passed some sort of test. "Now let’s get yah patched up.”

Bloody gauze piled up in the sink as Frank slowly revealed James’ face. He was surprised by how little damage there was to the man’s face. Nothing was broken, which was a miracle in itself. There was a deep gouge just above his temple and bruising was beginning to swell along his cheekbone. “You’ll need stitches,” Frank grunted as he swabbed iodine around the wound.

“It’ll be fine,” James snapped.

Frank disagreed but didn’t push it, opting instead for bandaging it tight and checking his pupil response. “Don’t think you have a concussion,” he grunted, throwing out the bloody gauze and packing up the kit. “Yer welcome," Frank said gruffly, beginning to get irritated by the man's creepy silence. Eyes flicked up to meet his, something calculated sheathed over that barely controlled anger.

“Why would the Punisher wanna help me?” James asked shrewdly.

Frank barked a harsh laugh, not caught off guard by the observation in the slightest. He had expected nothing less from a fellow predator. “Men like us should stick together,” he said mildly, stalling for time as he waited for the last puzzle piece that would make up the picture of the man before him to fall into place. James had military training, that much was clear, but the kind of training he had didn't come from just being an army grunt humping it around the desert. No, he had specialized training. Black Ops at the very least, perhaps some Ghost Protocol unit shit.

_Assassin._

Frank has had very few dealings with the people who made a living through that particular set of skills, but he did meet one briefly during his time working for Agent Orange. That man had shared many similar qualities with James. It was the constant slight tensing of the muscles, that slinking cat-like grace, the hyper-awareness. A darkness that lurked somewhere deep behind the eyes; something that danced behind the rage that told Frank the kid had been through some rough shit. A soft mechanical whirring caught Frank's ear as James shifted. His elbow bumped against the corner of the marble counter and a metallic clink, muted through layers of cotton fabric, could be heard. There it was. The final puzzle piece that clicked into place. Frank smirked.

“How about you tell me why the Winter Soldier is gettin’ caught up in back alley brawls—.” His words were cut off as he suddenly found himself slammed against the wall, a forearm pressed hard against his throat. Frost-blue eyes stood in stark contrast with the searing hot rage that burned holes through Frank.

“Don’t call me that,” James growled.

“Okay,” Frank answered.

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“Okay.”

From one heartbeat to the next the man was gone, leaving Frank standing in his bathroom with bruised knuckles and a sink full of bloody gauze.

 


	2. Denial

 

_"There is a grace in denial. It is nature's way of letting in only as much as we can handle."_

 

“Frank Castle, as I live and breathe!”

Frank turned towards the voice, seeing a familiar man striding down the hallway of the V.A. with an easy smile. “Sam Wilson,” he replied, gripping the man’s offered hand. “It’s been a long time,” the former pilot said as he fell into step with him. “You here for the meeting?” Frank shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Ah, naw. Not really my thing,” he said, deflecting. “Just droppin’ some stuff off fer Curtis.” Sam’s smile was gentle in a way that somehow didn’t feel condescending. “Well, you know where to find me if you ever change your mind,” he said, the picture of ease with his hands tucked in his pockets.

Frank couldn’t help but smirk. “If Curtis couldn’t get me t’ one of his meetin’s, what makes yah think yah can get me t’ yours?” Sam answered the smirk with one of his own. “I’ve been told I’m a stubborn bastard,” he drawled. “I’ll wear you down eventually.” Frank chuckled. “Don’t hold yer breath,” he snarked back in good humour as they reached the front doors.

“Are you kidding me right now, Steve?” a low voice drifted through the glass of the front doors, tone tight with anger. Sam frowned as Frank cocked an ear. He knew that voice. “Come on Buck, we talked about this,” an equally exasperated sounding voice followed after. “Yeah, we did. And I gave you my answer,” the first voice growled in warning. “Look, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Steve tired, voice ernest and supportive. It was a tone that grated Frank’s nerves. “Just listening can be really helpful and—.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Steve. I’m not a child,” James snapped, clearly finding the other man’s tone as annoying as Frank. Sam’s eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. Frank was better at controlling his facial expressions but he was no less surprised by the man’s tone. The rest of the two men’s exchange got lost in an angry buzz before the front door banged open and a stormy Steve Rogers strode into the front hall. He froze when he saw them, a sour look in his eye. Frank and Sam nearly jumped, like two kids caught listening at peepholes.

“Hey Sam,” the blonde man said warily, eyes not leaving Frank’s. “Castle,” he said stiffly. “Rogers,” Frank replied blandly. He was all too aware of what the man thought of him. Not like he gave a shit. “Good to see you, Steve,” Sam said, attempting to ease the tension as he stepped forward to hug the larger man. “I take it Bucky won’t be joining us today?” Rogers shook his head, suddenly looking very tired. “I tried,” he sighed. “I know it’d be good for him, he’s just…,” He trailed off, eyes flicking up to Frank as if just remembering that the other man was there.

“See yah ‘round, Wilson,” he said with a wave as he stepped around the bulk that was Captain America. Frank wasn’t a small guy by any means and even he felt slightly dwarfed next to the National icon. “I’ll save you a seat, Castle,” the man said with a smile, even as Rogers tried to glare holes through his throat. “I told yah not to hold yer breath,” Frank threw over his shoulder as he pushed his way through the door.

He found James.

Frank wasn’t really looking for the dark haired man but he would be a liar if he didn’t keep an eye out. He didn’t have to look very hard; the man was sitting stiffly on a bench a mere half block away, hands shoved into coat pockets. He huffed a breath as he dropped down next to the former assassin. He felt James tense, muscles stiffening almost imperceptibly. Frank didn’t push him. He just chaffed his hands together against the nippy fall air and waited. They sat in silence for a long while.

“I’m fine,” James snapped, finally breaking the silence. His words came out as stiff sounding as his shoulders looked. It didn’t even look like the guy had a neck, his shoulders were hiked up to his ears they were that tense. “Didn’t say yah weren’t,” Frank said mildly, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked since the army but damn if he didn’t want something to do with his fingers.

“What they did to me," James started softly. He paused, something in his eyes getting lost in the past. Frank thought the man was actually about to tell him something but then whatever had haunted his eyes vanished behind hard steel. "It's in the past," James continued bitterly through gritted teeth. “Talking about what happened won’t change it, won't fix it. It was shitty but it's over now and I've moved on. Talking about it would just be a waste of time.”

Frank bit back the urge to call bullshit. It was plain as dirt that the kid was struggling something fierce. He betrayed himself by the tense muscles coiled to the breaking point, by the unconscious fidgeting on his fingers, the nervous flare of his nostrils. Instead, Frank just hummed softly, neither agreeing or disagreeing with the man’s outburst. “Don’t see the point myself,” he said gruffly. “But I never was much of a talker. It helped Curtis though, when he came back from the sands ‘bout twenty-eight pounds lighter. It helped Sam, helped your boy.” At the mention of the Captain, the skin under James’ left eye twitched. “I’m not Steve,” he snapped defensively. Frank snorted rudely. “Thank god for that,” he growled. “He’s bad enough, the fuck would the world do with two of yah?”

Was it his imagination or did the corner of the kid’s mouth twitch upwards slightly?

“I’m fine,” James stated again, leather-gloved fingers clenching unconsciously at his jeans. “Sure kid,” Frank drawled. “And I’m really the Tooth Fairy.” The glare the younger man sent him would have scorched any lesser man into ash. As it was, the man sometimes known as the Punisher just smirked. “You can’t seriously sit there and tell me a person can walk away from seventy-odd years of brainwashing and torture and just be _fine_. I ain’t seen anythin’ close to what you went through but….hell, I _still_ get nightmares from my time in the sands.”

James’ pale eyes flicked up to meet his, something akin to curiosity sneaking past the shuttered wall he’d built. It was piercing and intrusive and Frank found he couldn’t hold the gaze. Maybe it was something to do with how those eyes shone with ghosts of another era; eyes that had seen so much set in such a young face. It was unsettling.

“That kinda shit changes yah,” Frank said softly as he stared down at his boots. “Cuts yah up on the inside where nobody can see yah bleed. And don’t give me some crap about yah not deservin' help because a what you’ve done,” he added harshly, knowing for a fact that this had to be a huge part of why James was reluctant to join the support group. “I don’t got time for that pity bullshit.” Out the corner of his eye Frank could see the muscles in James’ jaw working and flexing.

“I ain’t saying yah gotta talk today,” Frank added, feeling out of his depth and grasping at straws and praying to whatever god that was listening he wasn’t fucking this up. “And maybe yah never do and that’s okay too. But don’t tell me yer fuckin’ _fine_.”

James’ eyes were blazing. Frank tensed, unsure if the man was gonna run or take a swing at him. The man did neither. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, unable to hide the shaking fingers on his right hand before Frank noticed, and sent his death glare across the road instead. Frank could tell the conversation was over but didn’t feel right leaving the guy alone.

They sat in silence, watching the traffic, until James suddenly scrubbed his nose noisily on his sleeve and walked away without another word. Frank’s eyes tracked the man as he strode up the sidewalk to join the living symbol of patriotic freedom as he came down the front steps of the V.A. Frank watched as the two men exchanged words. Steve’s posture was cautious and open while James’ shoulders were once again hunched in self-defence. Whatever animosity that had sparked between the them seemed to have vanished now as Steve clasps a gentle hand on James’ shoulder, eyes soft and understanding.

Frank huffed a sigh and stood, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He turned, heading in the opposite direction but not before sending one last glance down the street; not before seeing James doing the same thing. Their eyes met for a moment, pale blue meeting flint brown. Something happened then, something exchanged between the two men in that simple glance. It was a silent recognition of a predator acknowledging another of his own breed, acknowledging the scars of past battles both won and lost. A soldier sending silent support to one of his own, acknowledging the shared pain.

A bone-deep kind of pain, different in origin and shape but shared all the same.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know traditionally the 5 Stages start with denial but it also says that different people can experience the stages in different orders and I wanted to start with anger. Also, as always, feedback is my fairy dust!!


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